


Polyjuiced

by deancasdracohar



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Date Rape Drug/Roofies, Good Draco Malfoy, Hurt/Comfort, Identity Reveal, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Post-War, no actual rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-10
Updated: 2020-05-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:01:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24104071
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deancasdracohar/pseuds/deancasdracohar
Summary: Harry goes to a muggle club while polyjuiced, and someone drugs his drink. Luckily, a pretentious blonde he knows just happens to be there.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 22
Kudos: 331





	1. The Club

The club’s atmosphere was dark and oppressive, colorful lights providing nothing but a headache, but it was better than nothing. Harry knew there weren’t many better places to avoid all his problems than a club with a strong drink in his hand.

Especially as he was poly-juiced. He’d learned that trick early after the war, when a lucky reporter for the Daily Prophet had managed to get a photo of him, absolutely hammered, leaving a gay bar, and outed him to the general public.

Since then, he’d always made sure he had a fresh batch of poly-juice potion brewed before he went out, damn how disgusting it tasted. And hoped he wouldn’t run into whatever semi-attractive muggle guy he’d managed to nick some hair off of on a trip to the grocery.

Of course, every time he went out, he mainly just regretted it. Shut up in his house, he romanticized the anonymity, the sweat and the dancing. But when he was out he remembered: it felt cold and uncomfortable, and he didn’t feel himself at all.

And he never fucked the guys he met. It felt wrong—he wasn’t he seemed to them to be, and it wasn’t right to get them into a situation they weren’t aware of, he reasoned.

It still didn’t hurt, though, when a hot guy hit on him. Even if this face wasn’t his and he had no intention of going anywhere with the guy.

“Hey,” the guy said, sidling up to him. He was big—bigger than Harry usually went for, with biceps twice the size of his and at least a head taller than he was—but he was undeniably hot. “You look like you could use some company.”

Harry grinned at him. “That’d be nice.”

“What’s your name, beautiful?” The guy said, laying it on thick.

Well, no harm in giving his real name, if he wasn’t wearing his real face. “I’m Harry. And you?”

“I’m Jake. Can I buy you a drink, Haz?”

Harry nodded with a chuckle. “No one’s called me Haz, before,” he explained, when Jake sent him a questioning look. “And I’ll take a whiskey, if you don’t mind.”

“Oh. Well, I’m glad I’m your first, then,” Jake said with a wink, and, after a moment with the bartender, passed Harry a glass of whiskey.

“Thanks,” Harry said. He did love a free drink. “What do you do, Jake? Besides loiter around clubs buying fellows a drink.”

Jake smiled. “Oh, this and that. Nothing I’m too committed to, really. You?”

“Yeah, just that,” Harry said with a grimace, and downed half his drink. He’d tried out being an auror, of course. He’d quit just a few days in, though. Couldn’t stomach everyone thinking he was all that. After all, it was the prophecy, and Voldemort’s soul, and his mother’s love, that had made him a hero. Sure, he’d done his bit. But he wasn’t the greatest wizard of all time, or anything.

Hermione could take that title. And was gunning to—given the track _she_ was on, she’d b the youngest minister of magic ever. The wizarding world could only hope.

“You come here often?”

What a line. Harry was getting tired of this Jake character. He took another long swig of his drink before responding. “Now and again,” he said finally. “Though I hardly get up to much.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jake responded, getting closer to him. Harry could almost feel the guy’s breath, and yeah, that wasn’t…that wasn’t too comfortable. But the club was loud, and…he was probably just trying to hear better. “Why’s that?”

“I…” Harry began, but found he was having trouble putting words together. Now that he was thinking of it, the room was a little off-kilter. Swimming. He hadn’t even had a whole drink. He…had he brewed his poly-juice wrong, somehow?

“Yeah, Haz?” Jake said. Harry looked at him sluggishly. He’d forgotten the guy was there. He was so big, close to Harry. Blocked out almost all of the lights.

Harry giggled. “You’re so big,” he said. “Sooo…muscles.”

Jake grinned. “You think so? I’ve been told they’re pretty sexy.”

Sexy? The muscles were pretty big. Harry didn’t know. He shrugged. Words were so hard.

Jake grinned again at Harry’s lazy movement. “You want to finish off that drink, babe?”

Harry looked at his drink. The room spun. Jake was so big. He reached to grab his drink but his arm was so heavy, he could barely stand…he leaned on the bar and frowned. “Can’t,” he slurred. He hoped Jake wouldn’t think he was stupid, he wasn’t normally like this. Wasn’t…

“That’s okay, babe, I’ll help you,” Jake said, and brought the drink to Harry’s lips.

What was happening? The room was spinning…he looked at his drink…his drink.

Had Jake put something in his drink? He dragged his eyes up to Jakes face with an effort, and sure enough, there was something…hungry, there. 

“No,” he murmured, “No drink.” But Jake took his open mouth as an opportunity to pour the rest of the drink down Harry’s throat.

It was all Harry could do not to spit it up.

“That’s a good boy,” Jake smiled at him.

He had to…he had to protect himself. His wand! He fumbled for his wand, but it was so hard to…hard to lift his arms, and…and his wand wasn’t in his pocket. He hadn’t left it, had he? He wouldn’t…but he couldn’t think, couldn’t think of whether maybe he’d left it at home.

Jake put his hands on Harry’s hips.

“No, I don’t…” Harry whined, trying to squirm out of the larger man’s grip, but Jake was strong and big and Harry…Harry couldn’t think. He had to think.

“I don’t think you’re really comfortable, here, are you, babe? Why don’t we go back to my place?” Jake grinned, gripping Harry’s hips with more force, moving his hand towards Harry’s…towards Harry’s dick, and Jake’s hand was on his…

“No,” Harry said again sluggishly, “No, don’t wanna,” he moaned, and half-pulled, half-toppled from Jake’s grasp. As soon as he’d freed himself, he tried to stumble away. He had to get…to get away, he just had to get away and then he’d be okay.

“Haz?” Jake called, and Harry stumbled behind a couple dancing, tried to lose himself in the crowd.

But his arms and legs were so heavy. The lights were so bright but everything was so dark, there were spots all over his vision. Some little voice that was still aware in the back of Harry’s head said to him: _you’re not getting away._

It was so heavy. And dark. Maybe he should just…just…

“You alright?” There was a face. Harry could barely make it out in the dark: sharp nose, a flop of blonde hair. High cheekbones and mirthless blue eyes…Malfoy. Malfoy and his hand on Harry’s arm and…Malfoy would help him, right? Maybe?

“Changed your hair,” Harry observed. “It’s…nice.”

Malfoy looked confused. Which of course he did, Harry realized, because Harry didn’t look like Harry to him. Just some muggle. Why was Malfoy here?

“Haz?” he heard a voice call from somewhere behind him, at the same time as Malfoy repeated his initial question. Right…Jake.

“Yeah, ‘xcept…” Harry tried to put the words together. “I need to get…to get out. Don’t…I need to…to leave.”

Malfoy raised an imperious eyebrow. “Can’t handle our liquor, can we?”

Harry frowned. Malfoy…Malfoy, would he…but he couldn’t think and suddenly there was another hand on his arm, a larger one. 

“Sorry,” Jake said, “My boyfriend’s being a bit rowdy tonight. Had a bit too much to drink, I’m afraid.”

“Clearly,” Malfoy chuckled.

No, no, he couldn’t… Malfoy had to know, Harry had to tell him. He couldn’t do anything but look at Malfoy and let out a pitiful sort of whine, though, because his words had become out of reach. Everything had too many syllables. So he just looked at Malfoy pleadingly, and leaned towards him. 

Apparently, that was enough. Malfoy’s eyes darkened. “Is this your boyfriend?” he asked, looking at Harry.

 _No, he’s not,_ Harry wanted to say, but his tongue was so heavy.

“Of course I am!” Jake said indignantly. “Tell him I am, Haz.”

Was he…was he? He tried to shake his head. He wasn’t. He had to tell Malfoy. “‘m not,” he struggled to say. “He’s no,” he settled on, and leaned heavily onto both of the hands on his arm. He wouldn’t be able to stand much longer, just had to hope that Malfoy would understand, would help him.

“You heard him, asshole. Take your hand off of him right now. What, did you put something in his drink?” Malfoy spat, and Jake released Harry’s arm immediately. Harry stumbled, but Draco held him firmly upright.

“Listen, man,” Jake said, “I didn’t do anything like that. Just…” he shrugged, then left. Didn’t want to get in trouble, probably.

He was gone. Harry was so _heavy,_ he tried to stay standing but it was so _hard._ He stumbled again, and began to fall.

“Hey there,” Malfoy said, softer, and put a stabilizing arm around Harry’s waist. Harry leaned into the support gratefully. “I think that guy drugged you. Are you here with anyone, or are you alone?”

Harry tried to think. With anyone? “…not with.”

“Not with. Okay.” Malfoy ran his free hand through his hair. “I’m going to take you back to my place, is that alright? Not to harm you. Just to make sure you’re okay. I wouldn’t want to leave you alone here, particularly not while that…bastard, is still around. Is that okay?”

His place? Harry tried to think. He was still…he was still poly-juiced, had drunk enough for another few hours at least, and…he really wouldn’t be able to fight Jake off, not in this state…Malfoy wouldn’t do anything, would he?

Harry didn’t have much of a choice. “Yeah,” he got out, still leaning on Malfoy.

Malfoy smiled. “Good. Here, I don’t live far from here. Or…” he frowned. “Yeah, I suppose I could just…here, come outside with me.”

“Kay,” Harry said. Malfoy led him outside and into the alley as Harry stumbled in his grip.

“Now, Haz—that’s what that guy called you, right?” Malfoy cut himself off, and looked at Harry expectantly. _Haz._ No one called him that.

“No,” Harry said. “No, Harry, ‘m Harry,” he said. He didn’t like _Haz._

A brief frown flitted over Malfoy’s face before he nodded. “Alright. Harry. I’m going to do something that might be scary, okay? And it might make you feel weird. But it’ll be quicker.”

Feel…weird? “You gonna…you gonna fuck me?” Harry asked, frowning.

Malfoy’s jaw dropped. That was funny, Harry thought vaguely. He'd never actually seen someone's jaw drop before. “No! No," Malfoy said, steadying himself, bringing his face back to his normal Malfoy face. "Just…just bringing us back to my place, okay? A quick way.”

 _Apparition._ Malfoy was going to use _apparition._ Harry giggled. “I’m silly,” he said. “Thought you were…were gonna…bringing’s not scary, though. Just twirly.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Twirly, huh? Whatever that means. Are you ready?”

Harry hummed in response. Malfoy grabbed his arm and they apparated away, disappearing from the alleyway, twirly.


	2. The Club, pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The club--from Draco's perspective.

Draco rarely went out.

Walking down Diagon Alley to do a bit of shopping was hard enough, after all. At best, he got glares from middle-aged witches and elderly wizards alike, anyone who knew his face from the Prophet. From the trial. At worst…well, at worst, he’d cast a quick _protego_ and then get the fuck out of there. But clubbing? Hitting on dudes?

Well, it was bad enough being a death eater. The world didn’t need to know he was into men as well. And neither, for that matter, did his father. If Azkaban didn’t kill Lucius Malfoy, the news that his son was a fairy certainly would. He could just imagine it—his father, curled up against the edge of his cell, going barking mad after reading the news in the Prophet. No, he couldn’t give the public that sort of satisfaction.

So when Draco went out, he went to muggle places. And not cool ones, either, because the one time he’d gone to a nice place he’d spotted Ginny goddamn Weasley out of the corner of his eye—probably with her whole Quidditch team in tow—and he wasn’t about to risk _that_ again. No, the places he went to were considerably…dirtier.

Which wasn’t ideal. But everyone needed to drink and dance once and a while, no matter how pleasant or unpleasant the ambience.

So Draco found himself at _Mynt Ultralounge_ —dear god, he’d thought to himself when he had seen the neon name above the door—on a Friday night, giving dancing half of his attention at best. The lights were too bright, really, and the alcohol was too cheap. He was nearly ready to leave, go back to his flat, and drink gin alone, when a man stumbled past him, nearly tripping over his feet.

Draco caught him by the arm. “You alright?” he asked.

The guy wasn’t unattractive—brown eyes, long lashes, dirty blonde hair—though he certainly wasn’t Draco’s type. With one look, though, he knew he wouldn’t be trying anything; his eyes were going in and out of focus and he was swaying in Draco’s grip. He’d clearly drunk far too much.

“Changed your hair,” the guy said. “It’s…nice.”

What? His hair? Draco looked at the guy, but he looked just as confused as Draco felt. Probably just drunken mumbling.

“You alright?” Draco asked again.

“Yeah, ‘xcept…” the guy said, the words coming slow. God, how much had he drunk? “I need to get…to get out. Don’t…I need to…to leave.”

Draco could understand that. He’d just been thinking of leaving himself. He considered offering the guy a ride before he realized he had, in fact, apparated here, and couldn’t very well take a muggle with him side-along. But Merlin, this guy couldn’t put a sentence together, could he? “Can’t handle our liquor, can we?” he asked with a smirk.

Maybe he could call the guy a cab? He wasn’t actually certain how muggles called cabs, though it probably didn’t work like the Knight Bus. Luckily, he was cut off from contemplation by a man coming up and putting his hand on the drunk guy’s arm.

“Sorry,” the man said. He was taller than Draco—though not by too much—but where Draco was slim and toned, this guy was broad, all muscle mass. “My boyfriend’s being a bit rowdy tonight. Had a bit too much to drink, I’m afraid.”

Draco chuckled with relief. He didn’t have to figure out that whole cab nonsense now. “Clearly,” he said, eyeing the drunken guy in front of him, who had turned his lolling head to look at his boyfriend.

The drunken guy looked back around when Draco spoke. His eyes flashed with something—something Draco couldn’t mistake.

Fear. He’d seen enough of that in his life to know what it looked like in someone’s wide eyes.

His blood ran cold. “Is this your boyfriend?” he asked the drunken man quietly. Now that he looked, there was something off—the hand gripping the drunken guy’s arm, for one, was a bit too firm. He’d heard of this happening at bars…he’d heard of guys putting things in girl’s drinks, although he’d never heard of things being put in other guy’s drinks. Could that be what had happened?

“Of course I am!” The cut through whatever weak mumbling the drunk—or drugged?—man was trying say. “Tell him I am, Haz.”

 _Haz_ looked between the two of them. Slow confusion was building on his face, and Draco felt sick, really, really sick. There was a reason he wasn’t in the business of heroics—well, for one, he was no good at it, but he couldn’t stand the looks on people’s faces. People who’d been hurt. It made him want to bolt.

Or _crucio_ this asshole who’d done the hurting. Because Draco had _thoughts_ about rapists. But Haz was speaking.

“’M not,” he said. Draco strained to hear him over the thumping club music. “He’s no.”

Dread pooled in Draco’s stomach as his suspicions were confirmed. God, what should he do? He caught the angry eyes of the muscle-man.

Right. First things first. “You heard him, asshole. Take your hand off of him right now. What, did you put something in his drink?” Draco spat. The man let go of Haz’s arm, and Haz stumbled. Draco tried to hold him upright without hurting him.

“Listen, man. I didn’t do anything like that. I just…” But clearly he couldn’t come up with a good excuse, because he just ducked into the crowd without another word.

Coward.

Draco was brought back to his surroundings by Haz nearly tripping over his own feet. Merlin, he was out of it. He steadied the guy, put an arm around his waist to hold him up. Haz looked up at him, his eyes wide and unseeing.

What next? “Hey there,” Draco began, not really sure where he was going with his sentence. “I think that guy drugged you. Are you here with anyone, or are you alone?”

After a pause, Haz replied, “Not with.”

Well. Shit. “Not with. Okay.” What could he do? There was nothing for it. “I’m going to take you back to my place, okay? Not to harm you. Just to make sure you’re okay. I wouldn’t want to leave you alone here, particularly not while that…bastard, is still around. Is that okay?”

Haz looked away, and Draco wondered for a moment whether he should repeat himself, but then the guy responded, “Yeah.”

Draco breathed a sigh of relief. That certainly made things easier. He smiled, tried to show Haz he was safe. “Good. Here, I don’t live far from here. Or…” he frowned. Again—he didn’t have a car. Haz was in no condition to walk. Wizards weren’t _supposed_ to side-along with muggles, but perhaps…in these extenuating circumstances…after all, Haz probably wouldn’t even remember this in the morning. “Yeah, I suppose I could just…here, come outside with me.”

“Kay,” Haz said. He was clearly past the point of protest. He was nearly past the point of walking, Draco noted, as he led him outside and towards an alley where they wouldn’t be noticed. God, that guy deserved a good punch in the face. Or worse. Maybe once this was all over, Draco would find him…but none of that now. He had to make sure Haz wouldn’t panic-splinch himself in the side-along, which meant vaguely explaining apparition to a _muggle._ How would he manage this one?

“Now, Haz—that’s what that guy called you, right?” Draco cut himself off. Could that have been a fake name that the muscle man had made up to pretend he was his boyfriend?

“No,” Harry said. “No, Harry, ‘m Harry,” he said. He seemed uncomfortable

Ah, yes. Haz was a nickname for Harry, wasn’t it? He’d never actually met someone named Harry other than…well, other than _the_ Harry. He shook his head, getting Harry Potter out of his mind for the time being. There were more pressing issues than his age-old crush on the boy who lived. More pressing issues being the drugged man in front of him who looked devastatingly mournful, his lips pressed together and his eyebrows bunched up ruefully.

“Alright. Harry. I’m going to do something that might be scary, okay? And it might make you feel weird. But it’ll be quicker.”

Harry frowned, his eyes still not focusing. “You gonna…you gonna fuck me?”

Draco choked. Then he looked back on his words. _Might make you feel weird._ Idiot. This guy was nearly raped, now you’ve taken him to a narrow alleyway and are using vaguely threatening language while he’s still drugged out of his mind… “No! No. Just…just bringing us back to my place, okay? A quick way.”

Then Harry _giggled_. “I’m silly,” he said. “Thought you were…were gonna…bringing’s not scary, though. Just twirly.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. God, this guy was making absolutely no sense…although he was a bit on the money with that one, actually, however unknowingly. “Twirly, huh? Whatever that means. Are you ready?”

Harry hummed in response. Draco took his arm, closed his eyes, and pictured the door to his flat. The two twisted away, Draco holding on tight to Harry’s arm.


	3. Thrusters or the Onyx?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco takes Harry back to his apartment.

They landed in Draco’s dark apartment and Draco released Harry’s arm. Harry promptly threw up.

“Sorry. Side-along can be a bit sickening, but it does the trick in a snap,” Draco said, then realized that wouldn’t make any sense to a muggle.

Harry just nodded knowingly. “S’okay,” he mumbled. “S’not a problem.”

It really _was_ a problem, because the last thing he needed was to be thrown in a cell next to his father’s because this muggle went blabbing about his newfound powers of teleportation. He didn’t seem phased, however, at least not for the moment. Draco expected he was too out of it to realize what had happened. Either way, he was wobbling on his feet and Draco had more pressing issues than an imminent arrest for breaking the statute of secrecy.

“Here, why don’t you take a seat,” Draco said, and gestured to the couch. That was all Harry needed, apparently, because he slumped down onto the couch and Draco found himself wondering how the guy had ever held himself up.

“Th’nks for sa-ving me,” Harry got out, the words slow as if they’d gotten stuck in his throat. Then he laughed. “Tables tu-rned, yeah?”

Tables?

“Anytime, Harry,” he sighed. “Although I do hope it won’t happen again.”

Harry frowned. Looked at his feet. “Stupid. Sup-posed to be the strong one.”

“You’re not stupid,” Draco said, taking off his shoes. “It’s that guy’s fault, not yours.”

But Harry seemed to have forgotten all about that line of conversation. He was looking around slowly at Draco’s meager flat, and Draco flushed. It wasn’t much, that was for sure. “Your house?” Harry asked, quirking his lips up.

Draco sighed. “No. My house is gone. This is just my…this is where I live, yeah. It’s my apartment.” Way to go, Draco, being emo about losing the manor with some random muggle.

“Gone? M’sorry,” Harry said mournfully.

“It’s not your fault,” Draco chuckled. “My family had a nice house. We lost it, though, because we did bad things. Picked the wrong side. Myself included. It was a deserved loss, just…not a nice one.” And now he was stuck in this flat, with assorted furniture and a shitty kitchenette, and a mattress leftover from the last person who lived here that _who_ knew how many people had slept on. Draco’d given it a good clean before he’d even touched it, using every charm he could think of…but that didn’t really matter. They’d still…ugh.

Harry leaned against him, and Draco couldn’t bear to push the boy away.

“Kids can’t pick sides,” he said slowly, and Draco really hated how this guy could do that. Say things that hit way too close to home without realizing it. “Not your fault.”

“Yes, well. All’s done now,” Draco shrugged. “Where’s home for you, then? Not that you’ve got to tell me that, actually, I can understand why you wouldn’t want to tell a stranger that.” Draco curled his feet up on the couch.

“Not…strang’r,” Harry managed, and Draco sighed. This guy was really out of it. “Home’s…far. Can’t go back.” Harry must have been aware enough to read the confusion on Draco’s face at that, because he explained further. “School. Home’s school.”

That, Draco could understand. “A lot of people don’t get that, actually,” Draco remarked. “I went to…er, a boarding school. And it really felt like home. It was the first place I felt safe. But a lot of people who went there just thought of it as school. Nothing else.” And really, why did he feel the need to tell this stranger his life story? It was probably the sleepover vibe this whole situation was giving off. He sighed, stood up, and turned on the lights. Hopefully that would help.

“Didn’t know you thought that,” Harry said, struggling to sit up. Draco tossed him a blanket from his side of the couch, which Harry immediately clutched. So much for losing the sleepover vibe. “Why a switch?”

What? This guy made no sense. “I’m not sure what you mean,” Draco said.

“Light switch. You don’t…don’t need one.”

Draco furrowed his brow. Harry was right, of course—the only reason this place had a light switch was because it was a muggle building, he could turn the lights on and off with a flick of his wand—but Harry didn’t know that. So what was he on about? “I…to turn the lights on and off?” he said carefully.

Harry giggled. “You don’t know _lumos_? Stupid.”

Well. That wasn’t what Draco had expected.

“You’re a wizard,” he said slowly.

A slow look of realization passed over Harry’s face. “Er…no,” he said furtively. “’M just…smart.”

“Just smart, huh?” Draco asked. He wanted to be pissed, really, but this guy was just a bit too drugged up and silly to get angry at. “So you just guessed the name of the charm to turn on the lights?”

“Yep.” Harry said, perking up. Clearly, he thought he’d gotten away with his extremely clever lie.

“Harry, c’mon. You’re a wizard,” Draco said, half-cross, half-laughing. The thing was, if this guy was a wizard, odds were he knew who Draco was. So then why hadn’t he said anything? Moreover, why had he _trusted_ Draco?

Harry frowned. “No, ‘m not!” he said, crossing his arms and pouting. “Muggle. ‘m a muggle.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “And how do you know the term ‘muggle’, then?”

Harry wouldn’t look at Draco, now. “Read it. In a book.” A book. Right. This guy was too much.

“What book?” Draco asked.

“I dunno,” Harry said. He was pouting still, and picking at threads on Draco’s blanket. Draco’s nice blanket, he realized, and really, in other situation, Draco would have snatched it out of Harry’s clearly destructive hands, but the boy was clinging to it as if it was his last hope, and Draco couldn’t really bear to take that away from him. “Wizard Book.”

“Wizard Book? That’s the best you can come up with?” Draco laughed. “Oh, boy. Well, this is a bit unfair because I’m fairly certain you know who I am, but I’ve never met you in my life. What, did you go to Beauxbatons?” The guy didn’t seem quite…husky enough to be a Durmstrang.

Harry still wouldn’t look at him. “Not a wizard,” he muttered.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then,” Draco decided. “Must be difficult. Growing up as a wizard named Harry when the great Harry Potter is out there saving the world, and you’re just trying to pass your O.W.L.s…or whatever they call them at Beauxbatons.” Draco had resented Potter enough when they’d gone to school together (although that might have just been a manifestation of his massive fucking crush, looking back on it). He couldn’t imagine having the same _name_ as the Chosen One.

“Er…” Harry’s head tipped back onto the sofa, and Draco put out his hand to gently guide it upright. “Yeah, ‘suppose.”

But he was still blushing and wouldn’t look at Draco.

“I’m not going to hurt you, you know. I know what the papers say about me, and I know what this looks like, me taking you back to my flat and all, but I just wasn’t sure what else to do.”

Harry looked at him, eyes wide and honest. “I know. You…wouldn’t hurt. Couldn’t do it last time, either.”

And that was far too firm. There was something behind those words. Something Draco did not like, because if this guy knew him…well, that was never good. He’d pretty much managed to piss off anyone he had ever met in his entire life. Worse, if he couldn’t even recognize the guy.

“I’m sorry, do I know you?” Draco asked.

“No,” Harry said too quickly, which meant yes.

“I do, don’t I?” Draco said quickly. The thought occurred to him, drenched with dread in the back of his mind, that maybe this was all a ruse. The muscle man and this Harry character were in on it together, just trying to get close enough to him to hurt him, or—but no, that was his paranoia talking. There was no way Harry could have acted that drugged up fear in the club. That much, he was sure of.

“Oh, shut it, you…ferret,” Harry said glumly.

Draco turned his head sharply. Ferret? That meant this wasn’t just anyone. This was…Merlin, he was an idiot. Harry Potter. Harry Potter was falling asleep on his couch. Polyjuiced, probably, but everything made complete sense now, everything that had been so confusing. 

Said Harry Potter rubbed his forehead—his _scar,_ Draco’s brain supplied helpfully, because this was _Harry Potter_ on his couch—and snuggled deeper into the couch, seemingly unaware that he’d just given Draco the closest he’d ever gotten to a heart attack.

“Sorry. Shouldn’t be mean. You’re m’…hero,” Harry said faintly, and then drifted off before Draco’s eyes.

Right. The tables were turned. Draco managed a deep sigh and a “Good night, scar-head.”

Harry woke up and stared at the ceiling. His head throbbed, no doubt he had a terrible hangover from however many whiskeys he’d managed to drink last night. He sat up, blinking.

The couch underneath him was the first giveaway, and then the small windows—so unlike the wall-to-wall glass he’d put everywhere in his house that he could, once he’d learned it could be spelled to look like walls for anyone trying to sneak a peek in—that he was not in his own house. In fact, he was in someone else’s flat, and a shitty one at that.

Before he could try to remember who he’d gone off with last night, a drawling voice came from behind him.

“Ah, you’re awake.”

Harry turned around and his eyes landed on Draco Malfoy’s face.

Maybe it was because he was groggy, or maybe it was an after-effect of the drugs he didn’t yet remember consuming, but he couldn’t really bring himself to react to this. Just waved. Looked at his hands. They were his. The poly-juice potion had worn off, then. Draco knew he was Harry as much as Harry knew Draco was Draco.

“Alright then,” Draco said, and held up a plate. “I, er. I made toast. And coffee, if you’d like some.”

Harry nodded numbly. Draco came to sit next to him on the couch and passed him the plate. Harry took the toast gratefully and took a bite. And maybe it was the food that brought him to his senses, or the fact that Draco Malfoy was sitting a foot away from him on a couch in what must’ve been the shittiest flat Harry had ever seen—whatever it was, it brought him to his senses.

“Malfoy. I’m in your flat,” Harry said dumbly, then kept himself from cursing. He sounded like an idiot.

“Interestingly enough, Harry, over the course of my life I have developed basic observational skills. So I’m actually aware that you’re in my flat, seeing as you’re sitting on my couch.”

Malfoy was talking a lot. Was he nervous? Or just a dick?

“Thanks for that,” Harry said. Merlin, his head was killing him. He put his hand to his forehead and leaned away from Malfoy, but couldn’t help but drink the coffee Malfoy had passed him. It probably wasn’t poisoned, right? “So can I ask _why,_ or will I just get another snarky response?”

Malfoy wouldn’t meet his eyes. “We, ah, met at the club last night. You obviously weren’t you, but your potion seems to have worn off. Someone put something in your drink, so I took you back to my place. You were a bit out of it.”

Someone had put something in his drink? Like a roofie? He tried to think back on last night, but it was mostly a blur. Jake. There was a guy named Jake, definitely, and he could remember him pouring something down his throat, now, which certainly lined up with Malfoy’s story. Harry cleared his throat awkwardly. “Did you, er…did we do anything?”

Malfoy’s ears turned pink and his back straightened uncomfortably. “No,” he said sharply. “I somehow managed to not take advantage of you while you were drugged. Call the Prophet, they won’t believe it either.” 

Harry looked at the ground. “Sorry. It’s not that I thought you would do that, I just…I’m having trouble remembering.”

Harry could feel Malfoy soften next to him, though he still wouldn’t look at the blonde.

“Sorry, Potter. That wasn’t fair of me. No, I just took you back here and you mumbled for a bit about how you weren’t a wizard and then fell asleep. I didn’t even know it was you until you called me a ferret. We did nothing untoward.”

“You don’t need to apologize,” Harry waved him off. “Right. This is nice and awkward. So this is your flat, then?”

Malfoy chuckled. “That was one of the first things you remarked upon last night, too, although I do believe you called it a house. Yes. This is my flat.”

“Nice place,” Harry said, looking at the peeling walls, then bit his tongue. Damn his mouth.

Malfoy, luckily, didn’t look too put off. “Yes, well, it’s no Malfoy Manor, but I’ve got a nice blanket. Or I _had_ a nice blanket, until you picked it to shreds last night.”

Harry looked at the blanket on the couch, which, sure enough, looked like it had more loose threads than it had cloth. “Yikes,” he said.

“Yikes indeed,” Malfoy drawled. “So, do you go to _Mynt Ultralounge_ a lot, or was that a one-time adventure for the golden boy?”

Harry frowned. “You were there too, you know.”

“Yes, well, it was my first time there. And I don’t believe I’ll be returning.”

Harry shrugged. “It was my first time there too. I go to places like it from time to time, though. It’s nice to be anonymous.”

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Is it?”

And damn him, because Harry was pretty sure he wasn’t a mind reader and yet he’d managed to cut right to the bone. Harry just shrugged again.

“So what was the guy’s name?” Malfoy asked. Harry looked up at him sharply.

Malfoy’s legs were crossed, he was sipping his coffee: the picture of nonchalance. But his eyes were dark and Harry could tell the casual air was fake.

“Doesn’t matter,” he said, though his brain supplied a name readily enough. “I can handle myself.”

“I know you can, Potter, I watched you defeat the Dark Lord. Although you should really bring your wand with you places. But it didn’t seem like it was this guy’s first time putting something in someone’s drink, and I’d prefer it to be his last.”

“Concerned for the welfare of the general public, Malfoy?”

Malfoy grinned. “I can be benevolent.”

“Clearly,” Harry said. Because really, if Malfoy hadn’t been there last night, he wouldn’t have handled himself. He’d be in Jake’s apartment right now. Or in an alley. Or dead. Instead, he was in Malfoy’s shitty flat, drinking coffee. Safe.

“Name?" Malfoy asked again. 

"I'll handle it," Harry sighed, and Malfoy frowned. "I'll handle it," he repeated, more forcefully, and Malfoy nodded, hands put up placatingly. 

"So you said you like the anonymity. Is that what you do? Poly-juice yourself and go out to three-star muggle clubs for a good time?” Malfoy didn’t sound judgmental. Just curious.

“Pretty much,” Harry grimaced. “It sounds bad when you put it that way. I don’t know. I used to go out in public, but the Prophet…”

“Is a piece of garbage,” Malfoy finished.

Harry suddenly remembered all of the nasty headlines they’d printed about Malfoy, everything from his trial to him crying in a muggle movie theater. Of course he’d been crying, he’d been watching The Notebook, though the papers only added that as a footnote. He didn’t need to lecture Malfoy about the prophet.

“I saw the piece that outed you,” Malfoy continued. “That was really rubbish. You’d think after saving the wizarding world they would offer you a bit of clemency.” The expression on his face was pained.

Harry frowned. “Yeah, but they really shouldn’t be in the practice of outing anyone.” He cleared his throat. “I notice they haven’t gotten you, yet, though.”

Draco made a choked sound and his ears turned pink again. “Excuse me?”

“Come on, Malfoy, we spent six years in school together and you cried while watching The Notebook. The Prophet may not have caught on yet, but I’m not an idiot.”

Malfoy made a pained expression. “You won’t tell them, will you?”

Harry was a little insulted. But he and Malfoy weren’t friends, he reminded himself, and being in the closet was delicate. “No. Definitely not. It would be a bit of a dick move of me to out you right after you saved me from being…well. Anyways.”

Malfoy’s shoulders sagged in relief. “Thanks. That’s good.” They were both silent for a moment, staring at the carpet. Flashing lights and alarms were going off in Harry’s brain, telling him in a voice that sounded a bit like Ron’s that for Merlin’s sake, he was sitting and having breakfast with _Malfoy._ “More coffee?” Malfoy interrupted his thoughts.

“Please,” Harry coughed, and Malfoy filled his mug again.

“So to keep the prophet off your tail you poly-juice yourself and then go have a bit of a dance. Why not bring friends?”

Harry shrugged. “Hermione and Ron aren’t really the sort. Ginny’s famous now, in her own rite, and goes to all of the cool places with her team. Neville’s a professor. None of them are really the type to go out to shitty clubs, I guess.”

Malfoy chuckled. “To be fair, I hadn’t pegged you as the type either. But I guess we’re in this boat together. Shall we make a schedule so we never have to run into each other again? Say, you can go to the Onyx Studio next Friday so long as I’m nice and far away and Thruster’s Nightclub?”

Harry snorted. “Thruster’s Nightclub? Is that even real?”

Malfoy grinned wryly. “It is. And unfortunately, it lives up to its name.”

“Yeah, you can take Thruster’s,” Harry said, taking a long gulp of his coffee. “But, er, we don’t need to do that. Clearly, running into you isn’t the worst thing that can happen. Unless you don’t want to see me. In which case I can try to stay out of the area, or something—“

“Harry,” Malfoy cut him off. “Er, Potter. I don’t mind seeing you. Although if you’re poly-juiced, you’ve got to tell me it’s you, because it would probably be the most embarrassing thing in the world if I started grinding on you thinking you were some muggle.” 

Harry glanced at Malfoy, at his blonde hair and his shoulders and his sharp jaw. _I wouldn’t mind,_ he nearly said, then swallowed those words quickly. “You can call me Harry, if you want,” he said instead, and tried to erase the idea of him even being a _little_ bit attracted to Draco Malfoy from his mind.

For one thing, if Ron ever found out, he’d murder him.

 _But Malfoy’s really fit,_ the voice in his head said, which he immediately squashed and sent to the deepest depths of hell where it belonged. 

“You sure?” Malfoy asked, tentatively.

Harry shrugged. “Yeah, why not.”

“Then you can call me Draco. You know, if you want.”

“Alright, Draco,” Harry said. It felt weird to say. A decade of feuding, now here they were. Sipping coffee. “I’ve told you why I go to the shittiest nightclubs in London. It’s your turn.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I should think that would be obvious.” When Harry just looked at him, he continued. “I’m not exactly well loved by the wizarding community, Harry. I prefer to go places where I won’t be recognized. And I hadn’t thought of the poly-juice thing, though it seems more trouble than it’s worth, to me. And I prefer my dates to know who they’re sleeping with.”

“I don’t _sleep_ with—“ Harry cut himself off when he saw that Draco’s lips were quirked up in a smile—he’d been making fun of him. Draco looked nice when he smiled. _Shut it, Harry._ He took a deep breath. “No one with you? Or did I pull you away from your friends last night?”

Draco shook his head. “No, ah…I’m a bit low on friends at the moment.”

And that made Harry’s heart hurt a little bit. “Really?”

“Yes, well. My school friends were really only my friends for my money, which dried up fast after the war. And the rest of the world sort of hates my guts. So.” He cleared his throat awkwardly. “It’s nice to have the company of strangers, I suppose. It’s easier to like me when you don’t know who I am.”

Harry frowned. “No,” he said.

Draco turned. “Well, obviously people like you when they find out who you are, Harry, it’s a little different for us ex-cons.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I didn’t mean me, idiot. I meant you. I like you. I know who you are. Voila.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “You’ve called me Malfoy up until about two minutes ago. And you’ve just called me idiot. You sure about that statement?”

“I’m sure,” Harry said, and looked at him, trying to make sure he looked like he was being honest, because he _was_ being honest, but he was also a bit tempted to laugh because he couldn’t look at Draco without thinking about kissing him and wasn’t _that_ a horrifying turn of events.

“Well. Thank you,” Draco said, and glanced away, sipping his coffee. “I don’t hate you either.”

“That’s not what I said,” Harry laughed.

Draco shrugged. “You don’t get more than that until you go clubbing with me on _purpose,_ I’m afraid.”

And he was kidding. He was kidding, clearly, because his lips were quirked up in a smirk and why would he ever invite his mortal enemy to go clubbing with him, but Harry couldn’t say anything except, “Alright. When and where?”

Draco turned to face him. “Really?” he asked.

And he looked so hopeful _._ “Yeah, let’s do it,” Harry said.

Draco grinned _._ “Thruster’s? Or do you prefer the Onyx?”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi all! Thanks for all your support, it's made me so happy!!!

They had exchanged muggle cell numbers after the night at Mynt Ultralounge. It had been three weeks now, and Harry hadn’t called, which was fine.

It wasn’t as if they were friends, after all. Even if he had sort of expected Harry to at least text him, or tell him if he was going out again. Even if he’d sort of been looking forward to it. It was fine, because obviously Harry had come to his senses and Draco needed to do so as well. They were enemies. Dark and light, Slytherin and Gryffindor, Malfoy and Potter. One morning of being on first-name basis didn’t exactly wipe that all away.

Even if Draco had spent most of the morning thinking about what it would be like to kiss Harry. It wasn’t as if Harry would reciprocate. It was fine. It was better this way.

Still, Draco hadn’t gone out again since. He was afraid of running into Harry again—afraid of the awkward conversation that would ensue, renewed promises to text that still would never be followed through.

Unfortunately, that meant he had spent the past few weeks drinking alone, instead, which was five times more pitiful. He was running out of gin—a feat, since he spent most of his salary on the stuff—and his flat was really terribly depressing.

Not that he missed the Manor, really. But he wouldn’t mind a yard. Or a few peacocks. Okay, sue him, he missed living in luxury.

But he was running out of gin and not particularly in the mood to go to the liquor store, which always made him feel just a bit too old and a bit too sad. So clubbing it was, which meant all he had to do was figure out which one Harry _wouldn’t_ be at. Which should be easy enough: Harry hadn’t been at a gay club, right? Probably, like Draco, he was more than a little apprehensive of them. Even if he was poly-juiced, which Draco wasn’t.

So that was fine. He’d just go to a gay club.

What did people _wear_ to a gay club? He rifled through his closet and hoped he wasn’t being internally homophobic or whatever muggles called it these days when he picked out a colorful paisley button down.

Under normal circumstances, he would have never bought a paisley shirt. But this one had caught his eye in a muggle shop, and though he was pretty sure he’d never have occasion to wear it—there was no way he would dress this flamboyantly for dinner with his mum, after all, and what else did he get up to these days—he’d bought it because he’d really, really liked it. An embarrassing amount.

He shrugged it over his shoulders and left several of the top buttons unbuttoned. A gay club. This would be fine. Hopefully there wouldn’t be any Prophet members or the like there—well, why would there be, anyways?

His phone rang. Without looking—because no one called his cell besides his mother—he picked it up and said, “Hello, mother.”

There was no way _she_ was finding out where he was about to go. There was a reason he’d never shown her his flat. Because besides from the money he spent on alcohol and the bit he spent on rent and food and the like, he sent the rest to his mum. If Narcissa Malfoy wasn’t living somewhere nice, after all, the world would implode.

His mum deserved the best.

A voice that was decidedly _not_ his mother’s, though, coughed over the phone.

“Er, I’m not your mum, Draco.”

Draco felt himself turn brick red. “Potter. I mean, Harry,” he realized.

He’d thought Harry wouldn’t call. Maybe he needed something. Then again, what would Harry Potter need from Draco Malfoy?

“Sorry I didn’t call before. I kept meaning to, but then I didn’t…er.”

Silence from the other end of the line. Draco wondered for a moment if Harry had rethought and hung up. Then his voice came again.

“I guess I was nervous. Or something. Because of last time. Which is sort of stupid.”

“Not stupid,” Draco said immediately. “Perfectly reasonable.” And then his heart did an embarrassing little beat because did that mean that Harry hadn’t come to his senses? That Harry still wanted to be friends?

“Thanks. Anyways. I was planning on going out tonight,” Harry continued. “And was wondering if you wanted to come with,” Harry said.

Draco tried to steer his voice out of the arena of holy-fucking-shit and into the arena of nonchalant. “Yeah, that sounds good. Where?”

Harry clearly hadn’t thought that far ahead, because he responded with “Uh…”

Had he not thought Draco would say yes? Draco had thought he’d made it perfectly clear that he had no friends, no prospects, pretty much nothing going on ever. But maybe Harry hadn’t gotten the point. He was rather thick.

He did pick up his words after a minute, though. “You have any ideas?”

Count on Harry to make someone else do the heavy lifting. But Draco was stuck, now, because he wasn’t very well about to suggest the gay club he was planning on going to, now, was he? Just because he kind of desperately wanted to kiss Harry didn’t mean that he was going to send any _messages._ He could keep his desires to himself, thank you very much.

“Have you been to Orsino’s?”

Draco could practically hear Harry’s nose crinkle at that over the phone.

“Unfortunately, yeah,” Harry replied. Draco laughed.

“Hey, at least it’s named after a Shakespeare character. Classes it up a bit. How about there, then?”

“Alright,” Harry said, and Draco was just about to suggest they meet at the club when his fireplace roared.

Of course. Harry knew where he lived. Why shouldn’t he floo unannounced, uninvited in Draco’s fireplace? He stepped out of the green flames, hair just as much of a mess as always.

“No one ever taught the Boy Who Lived manners, then?” Draco said jokingly. “Typically, fireplaces are invite-only, although I guess I can make an exception for the savior of the wizarding world, just this once.”

Harry didn’t respond, probably because he was staring at Draco. Why was he staring at Draco?

Right. Draco was wearing a half-unbuttoned, colorful paisley shirt. Curse him for wearing something actually fashionable for once. “Yeah. I’ll just change, then, and we can go.” He turned to go to his room.

“No!” Harry said quickly, and Draco turned. The golden boy was blushing. “No, it…it looks nice. Really nice.”

Draco peered at Harry, tried to figure out whether he was lying or making fun of him, but the compliment seemed genuine, so he let it go. “Thanks,” he said, fiddling with his collar. “You ready, then? Or, no, you haven’t drunk your potion yet,” he observed.

Harry bit his lip. “I was actually thinking of not having any tonight. I mean, the Prophet hasn’t exactly caught you at these places, although I’ve got a higher profile than you are, I guess—do you want me to? I can if you don’t want anyone to see you with me,” he said. 

Draco barked a laugh. “I think the only thing that could help my reputation even a little bit would be being seen with Harry Potter. No, I don’t mind,” he said.

Harry looked more than a little crestfallen. Why?

Ah. Right.

“Not that I want to go out with you because it’ll help my reputation,” Draco amended quickly. “I want to go out with you because it seems like fun.” That was worse, he realized, because _I want to go out with you_ sounded like _I want to date you_ instead of _I’d like to go to the club with you as sort-of friends slash ex-enemies,_ and Harry couldn’t know he wanted to date him. No, he amended quickly in his brain, he _didn’t_ want to date Harry. There. Perfect. And Harry, of course, was staring at him again, because he’d been having a conversation with himself in his head for about a minute and a half.

“Ready, then?” Draco asked, trying somewhat successfully to break the awkward silence.

“Yes,” Harry replied quickly, clearly catching on.

Draco walked out of the apartment and stuck his arm out. When Harry looked at it like it was an alien arm, he rolled his eyes. “Side-along, Harry, I’m not asking to hold hands with you. We’re not there yet.”

 _Yet_. Shit. Damn his mouth.

Harry blushed—why did he look so cute when he blushed?—and took Draco’s arm. Draco focused on Orsino’s, envisioning the alleyway on its left, spun out of the hallway and into said alleyway.

Harry blinked at him. “Well, this is lovely.”

“Feeling a bit twirly, there?” Draco joked.

“What?” Harry said, his eyebrows screwed up in confusion. “Twirly?”

Suddenly, bringing up something Harry had said while roofied right before he was about to go into a club seemed like not the right course of action. “Ah…” Draco said, and scratched the back of his head. “Nevermind.”

Harry shrugged and the two walked into the club together. Orsino’s was just a little bit nicer than Mynt Ultralounge, so the lights blinked a little more pleasantly and a little less like they were trying to give Draco an aneurysm.

“Do you want a drink?” Draco asked as soon as they were in the door, because the lights weren’t _that_ good.

Harry looked at him for a moment, then gave another shrug. “Sure, sounds good,” he said. “Whiskey.”

Draco grinned. “Glad you didn’t say something like a cosmopolitan. Though that would have been exciting, actually. I’ll be right back,” he said, and waded into the shifting mass of people towards where he was pretty sure he would find the bar. He pushed past several couples making out—and also pushed past the thought that _hey, that could be you and Harry,_ because no, it could not—and was quite nearly out of breath by the time he made eye contact with the bartender. “A shot of whiskey and a shot of gin, please,” he said, to which the bartender nodded and ducked below the bar to get glasses.

Draco looked around the room, trying to spot Harry, but there were too many moving bodies for him to able to focus that well. He’d just have to hope he was where he’d left him.

Of course, he wasn’t, Draco found out, as soon as he’d walked back to the spot near the entrance carefully holding the two shot glasses. He’d completely disappeared. Scanning the crowd for his familiar face wasn’t working, because god, there was so much _movement,_ and he was a little too self-conscious to call Harry’s name at any volume that would go above the thudding baseline of the music, so instead, he took Harry’s and his shots in quick succession and then joined the rest of the people on the dance floor, figuring he’d catch up to him later. Still, he didn’t move too far from the spot where they’d separated. Just in case Harry came to find him.

Which, at least twenty sweaty minutes later, he did.

“Draco,” Harry said as soon as they’d bumped into each other. He was a bit red, as if he’d had a drink, but he certainly didn’t look out of it like he had the last time they’d run into each other in a club, just pleasantly buzzed. And Draco was buzzed as well, two shots in on an empty stomach.

“I thought I’d lost you,” Draco said, trying to sound nonchalant, but the words came out as sort of sad and plaintive, because Harry was so _close_ to him.

And Harry leaned closer. “What’s that?” he said. “Sorry, it’s loud in here.”

He was inches from Draco, and Draco forcibly dragged his eyes up from Harry’s lips to his eyes. “Er, nothing. Just thought I had lost track of you. But here you are! Nice to see you again. How is your night treating you?”

“Why do you sound like you’re going to tea all the time?” Harry grinned. “We’re in a den of sin, you can tone down the pleasantries.”

And no one had ever looked so hot while saying _den of sin._ “Just because I’m polite and have a decent vocabulary, doesn’t mean—“

“There! You did it again!” Harry said, and grinned. “It’s like you can’t help it.”

“Well, maybe I can’t,” Draco said, and why couldn’t he control the way he said things anymore? Because that, he’d meant to say that cuttingly, but it had come out breathless. Draco blamed Harry’s grin.

The grin widened, if that was possible. “Yeah? What else can’t you help?”

What?

Because that sounded like flirting. Draco wasn’t an idiot.

The only logical conclusion was that he had gone suddenly and irrevocably insane.

“Wh—what?” he said, eloquently.

“Yeah, there goes the vocab,” Harry said, which Draco heard but was too busy watching the way Harry’s eyelashes drew across his cheekbones when he blinked. And the fact that unless he was still insane—which was entirely possible—Harry _was_ flirting with him.

“Well, at least I had one to begin with,” Draco replied.

“I guess we can’t all be as refined as you. Although you drank my drink, so I guess being polite doesn’t lead to chivalry.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “I thought that was supposed to be your thing, Gryffindor.”

“Then what’s your thing?” Harry asked, and god, was he fluttering his eyes on purpose? Or was that just the lights, flashing different colors off of Harry's skin, making him glow? “Being clever and charming?”

“I don’t think anyone ever said anything about charming,” Draco replied, and yes, okay, he was pretty sure that Harry was flirting with him now, and didn’t _that_ just make his cheeks blush and his chest feel warm and his...well.

“That must have just been my own thoughts, then,” Harry said, stepping even closer to Draco to get out of the way of a girl pushing behind him, and Draco had sort of forgotten there were other people around, because the whole room had become just the two of them, just Harry’s green eyes looking up at his.

“And what else do you think?” Draco asked.

“I think you look pretty fit in that shirt,” Harry said, and tugged on Draco’s shirt, pulling him just a bit closer, so close Draco couldn’t see past him, couldn’t see past those green eyes. Not that he wanted to look at anything else. “And, you know, I think I’d like to kiss you.”

“Mm, would you now?” Draco said. “I think I could oblige.” His heart was beating so fast and Harry’s hand was still on his shirt and he wanted to _kiss_ Draco.

“There’s the vocab,” Harry said.

“Here’s the kiss,” Draco said, and leaned in.

His heart exploded in his chest and Harry’s hands were clutching his shirt and his hands were on Harry’s shoulders and his lips were _on Harry’s,_ and Draco didn’t know how this had happened but _god,_ he was glad it had.

Harry let out a needy sound from the back of his throat and pressed forward. His lips were soft and warm and lips that Draco could definitely get used to kissing. He hoped he would get to.

Harry pulled away, breathlessly, and said, “I’ve been waiting to do that for a month now.”

“Then do it again,” Draco replied.


End file.
